


Cleaner

by demonfox38



Category: Lupin III
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Comfort Reading, Gen, Male Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:20:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27038617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonfox38/pseuds/demonfox38
Summary: A tough night abroad gets harder when Goemon shows up as a bloody mess at one of Lupin's hideouts. Luckily for his partners, Jigen is a cleaner in every sense of the word.
Relationships: Ishikawa Goemon XIII & Jigen Daisuke
Comments: 3
Kudos: 42





	Cleaner

Jigen Daisuke did not care one bit for visiting Pattaya.

Not that there was anything wrong with the city itself. It had reasonable tourist attractions. Beaches. Shrines. Markets on land. Markets at sea. Fresh seafood. Cheap beer. Hell, even a McDonalds or five. It was what Lupin liked that was the problem. Dark streets. Neon lights. Bombastic dance music. Atonal covers of American rock tunes. Drunks in the street. Girls in costumes, less dancing and more shuffling on top of bar counters in heels longer than the length of his magnum. Hooters. Too many Hooters. Things a man like Jigen had no interest in.

He didn't like being a middle-aged man, surrounded by middled-aged men with ill intentions.

There were some advantages to laying low in Pattaya. The McDonalds, one. All night clinics, another. It was all too easy to hock stolen goods here, scrub their path and money clean. Considering the ruckus they had made on their last heist, the squealing of Soi Dolphin and its travelers was preferable to the screams of police sirens. Even if the party animals were keeping Jigen up, it beat trying to sleep in a cell.

Long, hairy legs folded up. Spindly joints reached for a cigarette. Fire flared once, twice as Jigen spun the wheel of his lighter. Success went up in smoke. He sat with one hand behind his head, the other hovering between his lips and the glass of his ashtray. Yeah, sure. This was a mess. The cheap hideout. Its single bed. Lupin plopped right in the bed's center, stretched as far as his arms could reach. The bag of burger wrappers spilled over its end, plopping onto the braided rug below.

He reached down, rustling through the paper sack, wondering if any burgers were left.

Another rustle stopped his own.

Jigen replaced one American classic with another. He sat up, staring at the door to their apartment. A shadow slipped between thin cracks, spilling into their den. Who was out there? A drunk tenant? A janitor? Some lady Lupin had no business sharing his location with? Jigen grumbled. There were very few people he would let in their hideouts. Whoever was out there had to be prepared to meet lead with steel.

Lupin made an inquiry to their situation with a less than dignified, "Errugh?"

"I've got this," Jigen whispered. "Lay down."

With one more mumble, his boss did.

Old springs and worn supports creaked as Jigen stood up. He watched the shifting darkness fuss at their door. The lock to their room rattled, little metal pins clicking into place. Damn it. They really needed to replace the locks here. Get something a little more pick and kick resistant.

Who would have been so desperate as to visit them at night? Pops? Well, obviously. He couldn't be stuck on a wild goose chase forever. Fujiko? Even her standards couldn't be so low as to visit Lupin in a place like this. They'd paid more for their flipping burgers than this garbage pit. Goemon? In such a loud, raucous place? Now that Jigen would pay to see.

The last lock pushed into place.

Jigen pulled his gun.

Blood flowed as the door opened. The bodyguard did not draw it. Jigen rolled his revolver back. There was nothing he could do to harm the man standing in the doorway. No. Nothing he wanted to do. Neon light flashed pink and green over what was clotting, gore as heavy and black as the sea at night. It flowed down a familiar face, spiraling like cursive letters at the end of a stained blade.

Goemon was here. Fresh off a job.

But not a Lupin job.

This was no time for questions. Just orders. "Get in here."

Goemon did not need to be told twice. He bowed under Jigen's arm, beelining to the bathroom. To clean up? Throw up? Both seemed plausible. Jigen shut the door, locking everything Goemon had picked open. Nobody else was getting in tonight. This wasn't a hotel, after all.

Calloused neurons kept Jigen in check. There was a reason Goemon had come here. Even if this was just a cheap apartment, it was Lupin's hideout. The man literally had stashes squirreled away across the globe. On nights like this one, they were little slices of heaven. Jigen pushed against their bed, rolling his boss off its mattress. A normal man used a closet. Criminals like Lupin and Jigen used any crack they could find. In this case, the very space they slept on.

Wide eyes glimmered over the curled-up mattress. "What's up?"

"Goemon's here."

"Ah. Cool." It took Lupin a second to process what Jigen was saying. "Why?"

With a yank, Jigen peeled a garment bag out of their stash. "He had a job."

Lupin was not naïve. He was a man that invented crimes just for fun. There was still something star-struck and innocent in his dropped jaw. What Lupin did, he did with the same mischievous intent as a child. What Jigen and Goemon did? That was something else. Crimes forged in poverty, anger, fealty—in the chains Lupin had freed them from.

And yet, they still killed.

And Lupin had to be reminded that they were killers.

Plastic and cloth ruffled as Jigen hefted the bag over his shoulders. "I've got this."

"Okay." Lupin sank into their bedsheets. "Call me if you need help."

Jigen smiled. Both men knew this was out of Lupin's wheelhouse. It wasn't like he didn't have blood on his hands. He just didn't keep it there. His partner bowed out, steeling himself for what was in the bathroom. None of them killed for fun. The least of all, Goemon. Whatever he had done…

Well. Jigen could handle it.

He'd gotten quite the reputation as a cleaner, after all.

The bathroom door split at his touch. Steam rolled over a sweaty, nervous face. Jigen did not like what he saw in the mirror. He looked weary, his beard swept in eight different directions. Worse yet was what curled on the floor. Water picked at gore that stuck like globs of chewing tobacco to flesh and metal alike. It ran in square rivers down the tiled floors before draining away. For once, Jigen understood Goemon's particularities, his insistence on having as many Japanese comforts as possible. Japanese bathrooms kept their showers and tubs separate. Such a design saved their tub from turning into a swamp of blood.

Of course, Goemon had to clean Zantetsuken before himself. That was expected. Him kneeling on the bathroom floor completely nude with that blade millimeters away from castrating himself was not. Jigen didn't say a damn thing. Goemon knew what he was doing with that sword. Jigen understood that without understanding everything. He was seasoned to this mess.

Not immune.

The arteries and veins in Jigen's heart were hard. Decades of fast food, smoking, and the cruel reality of his job piled up like so many greasy scales. Goemon's sword cut through everything. So too did the slightest shudder in his shoulders. Empathy burned Jigen like the lactic acid in Goemon's muscles. Whatever he'd gone through, it was hard. Enough to send a samurai scurrying like vermin.

Anger and fear bubbled behind his clenched jaw. Goemon didn't have to do this. He didn't have to take these jobs anymore. There was no village pointing spears at his back, no twisted old man selling his pupil's body to the highest bidder. Surely, there were enough temples and dungeons to test Goemon's spirit. His construction didn't have to come at another's destruction.

But, sometimes…

Jigen knew all about those times.

"Hey." He hooked the garment bag on the back of the bathroom door. "Got some clothes for you."

"Thank you." Goemon's eyes did not leave his katana. "I won't stay long."

Sharp eyebrows pinched down. "Got a reason to run?"

"Perhaps."

Well, then. It was good his gun was loaded.

Jigen sat down, drawing himself parallel to Goemon. Long legs pushed against the edge of the sink, pressing his spine against the door. This bathroom was not big enough for him. Probably, not for the both of them. Still, Jigen stayed. He had to. Leaving Goemon like this…well. It wasn't safe, if he was hiding a secret from Lupin. Especially not safe if any of the blood on him was his own.

"So." Idle hands pulled Jigen's gun from a weary back, spinning its chamber like the token of some board game. "What was it?"

"Hmm?"

"Your target." Jigen knew the kinds Goemon liked. They were always simple, so clearly wrong that cutting them down was no conflict on his soul. "War lord? Human trafficker? Cult leader?"

The pressure from the shower's head softened. "It was supposed to be a 426."

Oh. Goodie. Some jackass from the Triad. "Supposed to be?"

It was only then that his nude friend became self-conscious. "It was a sweet sixteen."

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit!

That was not a term Goemon was supposed to know. That was one of several American things. A birthday, a song, a shotgun, a shitty premise for a bratty teen movie. It was also a style of a tournament. No mere cascade had soaked Goemon so deeply with gore. It was the debt he incurred, the price he paid to get out of a trap.

A man as long in the beard as Jigen was all too familiar with such a snare. He'd been suckered into a fair amount of them, early in his career. Put out a juicy target. Real. Fake. Didn't matter. Send sixteen people after it. Give them permission to kill anyone that gets in their way. Lock the doors after them. Let them kill each other. Recruit the survivor for a new job, put a bullet in their head, whatever. All it took was a little manipulation, and sixteen dangerous people were as good as dead.

Goemon was a straight shooter. Well, as straight and shootery as a man of his caliber qualified. All too trusting and earnest, especially when women were concerned.

Where Goemon was not sharp, his sword was.

Long fingers massaged the temples above a pointed nose. "Did anyone follow you?"

"I didn't see anyone."

Jigen grumbled. That was not an affirmative, reassuring statement. "How about your contractor? Any word from them?"

An insistent hand pointed towards a bloody pile of clothing, flicking more onto Jigen's knee. "My robe. Phone."

Jigen tore through the sopping laundry, finding the little device in question. It was an older model, something designed more for retirees than a young, active assassin. With a smear against stained hakama pleats, Jigen cleaned off Goemon's phone. They shouldn't have this damn thing on at all. Technology tracked too much—knew too much.

He looked up. "Tell me what I'm looking for, Goemon."

The ronin's eyelashes were all too heavy, weighed down by the spray of water. "Deposit."

A deposit? Did Goemon have a payment app on this thing? How shamefully modern of him. Jigen fussed around the phone's interface, scrolling easily through screens of kanji and katakana. There were texts, email messages, things in half a dozen languages. Some, he recognized. Lupin's abuse of emojis and Fujiko's saccharine flirting were easy to understand in any language. More concerning was what was in Thai—what hooked into his eyes with endless swirls.

Water ran like static in the back of his head. His focus was locked instead on communications between Goemon and an unknown number—the same number that slipped money in and out of his account. Jigen growled at shuffling numbers, the calculator in his head frying out. A hundred thousand baht in. Two hundred thousand. More. More. More. Like little ticks of a clock, something counting the magnitude of Goemon's work.

And then disputed. Retracted. Gone.

"Shit," Jigen swore. 

"What?" Goemon asked.

"The bastards took your money."

Skin slipped. A rattled clang crashed next. Jigen jumped, Goemon's phone earning one more crack as it too landed on the tiled floor. He forced out a breath, his stubborn heart refusing to stop its race. Goemon was fine. A little uncoordinated, shocked by the news, but alright. No wonder he had dropped his sword. He'd just been screwed over twice. Not even a horn dog and a masochist as big as Lupin could take a beating quite like that.

"Hey." Jigen scooped Goemon's phone off the floor. "I can go get these bastards."

Goemon shook his head. "It's fine."

"It is absolutely not fine," Jigen growled. "You just walked out of a blender, and these people—"

"I will not put this burden on you."

A weight dropped dead in Jigen's chest. It pulled rusty chains down, sending old gears spinning. What was reliable and practical broke. Of course, Goemon would say such things. Goemon was the closest thing there was to a modern-day samurai, and samurai did not trouble others with their problems. Goemon was also only sixty-five kilograms, and only if he was soaking wet. Which he was, right there, in front of Jigen's face. All long-haired, smooth-jawed, worn out. Shivering in water that had to be at least a few degrees hotter than his blood.

Without armor—robes—

Even with his sword, Goemon seemed like—

Jigen did not let his thoughts finish. "I'll be right back."

Goemon nodded.

One ritual turned another, gears rolling together. Jigen tossed Goemon's phone into the sink, then grabbed his clothes. Were hakama safe in washing machines? Well, it was time to find out. He balled the bloody mess up, storming from the bathroom but creeping from their hideout. This was the only chance he was going to get to survey the hall. He wouldn't let it go to waste.

It wasn't smart, using the communal washer and dryer down the hall. God knew the last time anyone cleaned out the dryer's lint trap. That didn't matter. Watching what was going on did. Jigen kept his attention split, eyes darting from machines to windows and doors and back. There was still thumping outside, glass shaking from the bass of some rowdy bar. People laughing. Bands of lights. Pink, green, yellow, blue, red. All loud, all happy.

Jigen stared into the void beyond Pattaya's party, wondering when he last saw a star.

Water flowed. Ten baht's worth of detergent went to work. Jigen left the machine, his back to the wall as he crept into their hideout once more. It really did seem okay. Maybe Goemon was right. Maybe there was nothing to see because there truly was nothing to see. He was a thorough man, his training mixed between the arts of samurai and ninja. If anyone knew how to throw off a stalker, it was someone trained in stalking.

Jigen had his own ways. He went through them, his mind clicking at every completed task. Lock the door. Check the windows. Refold the blinds, then the curtains. Stop. Grab his cigarette. Puff. Put it back in the ashtray. Grab a chair. Shove it under the front door's knob. Grab a beer. No. Water. No. Two—

"Jigen?"

Dark eyes rose. Shit. He'd disturbed Lupin again. "Yeah?"

Even with his mouth moving, Lupin kept his face planted in the bed's pillows. "We're out of burgers."

Damn it. He thought so. "We can get more in the morning."

Lupin laughed. "Goemon wouldn't've eaten them, anyway."

Oh. Damn. That was what he was worried about. With Lupin, care was always a heavy, physical thing. Sometimes, it was hugging. Sometimes, kissing. Sometimes, slamming into springs so hard that he literally raced beds through bedrooms. Such tricks didn't work on Goemon. His pride was like a turtle's shell—hard, unyielding, fatal when it broke. Still, Lupin kept reaching for him, kept fiddling at what was locked so far away. For a friend, he would try anything, even if that meant giving them the things they hated the most.

"Don't worry about it, Boss." Jigen screwed up his best smile. "Just go back to sleep."

Lupin's grin looped around his ears.

Professionals never left their jobs unfinished. It was easy for Jigen to lie to himself, to pretend this was all just part of the Lupin gig. It was a bit harder to feel that way, coming back to the wet mess on the bathroom floor. Zantetsuken was clean, dry, balanced against the sink. Ready to work once again. Its handler? Not so much.

Jigen sighed, dropping to his knees. The hem of his shirt soaked up spilled water—what fell from drowsy hands. The gunslinger smirked. It took a lot of energy, running and screaming and slashing bullets and bones into tiny little pieces. For someone so focused on his own physical fitness, Goemon truly had no concept of his body's limitations. That was great when it came to fighting impossible odds. Less impressive when it left him draped against the tub, sleeping under a false cascade.

"Hey." Jigen clicked his fingers twice in Goemon's right ear. "Wake up."

Goemon mumbled something that Jigen didn't think was a word in any language.

"I know. But, this isn't a bedroom." Stubborn fingers met as Jigen snatched the drooping showerhead from Goemon's grasp. "You done with this?"

"Mmm."

Okay. They were just at the edge of articulation. He could work with that. Faucets praised Jigen with a squeal as he wrenched them shut. The last of the water dripped light onto tile, echoing in the stilled bathroom. Metal rattled as Jigen snatched a hanging towel. It was followed by soft rustling, grumbling, wet tendrils of hair smacking together with slick splats.

Insecurity threaded through his fingers. Why was he doing this? Why was he sitting on a wet bathroom floor, drenching himself as much as he was drying Goemon? What were they going to do if Goemon had a concussion, internal bleeding, something really wrong with him? Stiff terrycloth erased his fears. Oh, there were still cuts on Goemon's skin, more bruises blooming than Jigen wanted to count. The blood that had coated Goemon was gone, washed down the drain. He was still here, warm and pink, burned from battle and burning to return to it.

Or maybe—just maybe—a little embarrassed by it all.

Jigen dropped the towel over Goemon's head. "All good?"

Goemon nodded, then drew the towel to someplace decent. " _Sumanai_."

"Ah, come on. None of that." Sharp knees creaked as Jigen snapped up. He nodded towards the door. "Get dressed. You don't want to get naked into bed with Lupin. The little pervert will get ideas."

Translating words took a great deal of effort. Goemon sat still, his query weighed with his fatigue. "You want me to stay?"

Jigen snorted. What kind of question was that? "You weren't planning on running off in the buff, were you? Pattaya's a hell of a place to get an indecency charge."

"I…I know I already told you. I must leave." Goemon shook his head. "If I don't…"

Yeah. Jigen knew. Persistent bastards like Goemon had a nasty habit of earning persistent bastards as enemies. "And what would you do if you thought I was in trouble?"

Fluorescent light cut like a shooting star across startled eyes. Goemon looked at Jigen. Actually, really locked eyes, processed his face, his thoughts. Jigen kept still. Goemon was coming out of a metropolitan jungle, purged from blood and mud but still mentally tangled in cables and vines. He had the training of a predator, but he bared his heart like prey. His confusion required patience. Skill. Time. Things any good assassin had. Jigen had all of these tools already forged. One more, they built together in nights as rough as this one.

"I'd…of course, I'd…" Sense came back to the ronin in slow, small loops. "Of course."

Jigen took those threads and tied them. "Can't do any less for you."

A smooth hand reached out. A hairy one took it. One good pull was all Jigen needed to get Goemon back on his feet. A wet head bowed, then turned away. It was time for Goemon to put himself together. Frayed attention went from terrycloth to metal teeth. The garment bag's zipper rumbled alongside Goemon's sigh, stale air meeting clear breath.

Fingers idled on the shoulders of the stored kimono. "I remembered…why I left this one here."

"Yeah?"

Goemon shook the old clothes out. "These colors are hideous."

Jigen smirked. He was no color coordinator. Black, black, and more black worked best for him. Maybe the occasional splash of blue or purple. So, maybe the rust-stain orange robe and brown hakama weren't exactly the best color combination. It wouldn't matter when they were all asleep. "Just put something on your ass, already."

That same devilish smile settled on Goemon's face. "It is nothing you have not seen before."

"Yeah," Jigen agreed, "but I'm not in the mood for a rerun."

Ritual fell between lithe fingers. There was an art to Goemon's routine, motions cautious and practiced. A loop around his waist. A tuck down his front. One long sleeve fluttering out, then another, both sides preened smooth. Jigen watched his folding and tying, each layer of cloth banishing blemishes like ofuda seals. For a moment, he seemed whole, in perfect health. Creeping darkness across his stomach was a sore reminder of how cruel such optimism was.

Huh. He didn't put his sarashi on.

How rare it was for a dragon to bare the gap in his scales.

Goemon opened his right hand. " _Douzo._ "

Jigen snickered, then took it.

"Ah." The ronin bowed his head, his blush tinged tangerine by his robes. "I mean…Zantetsuken, please."

Oh. Right. The damn sword. That katana was practically a teddy bear to Goemon. Jigen snorted once more, then swept Zantetsuken up with his left hand. "You know how to make a guy feel appreciated, Goemon."

"Sorry," he murmured. "I will repay you for this."

Of course. There was no arguing that. No point in bringing it up.

Reassurance flickered somewhere between Jigen's palm and Goemon's shoulder. The gunslinger drew his partner out, coaxing him to the coworker they left in the dark. Lupin was all fingers, each digit locking into fiber and flesh. It took no effort for him to pull Goemon into the muddled nest of bedsheets. The ronin fell flat, practiced, as if he were taking an Aikido fall. There was no opponent for him to fight, no reason to get up.

Sheets shuffled. Springs squeaked as the worn-out mattress caved further in. Jigen split two treasures among the three thieves. His first lay silver on the end table, the slightest ember from his dimming cigarette enough to make it glimmer in the dark. The second slid along Goemon's neck. His eyelids fell with its length, the whole of his body curling around it. He had Zantetsuken, his partners, threadbare shadows and sheets in a neon-lanced night. It was enough to still his struggle.

Jigen laid back, the arc of his spine warped by his pillow. So, this was it, huh? Hunkering down in a ratty old apartment, tucked in between a killer and a pervert. Some great line of defense Goemon had. Black eyes wandered to watch over flowing black hair. Had he even expected that much? Would he have stayed, if no one was here? Maybe it would have been easier in some ways. But, maybe he wouldn't have slept at all. Peace was not easy to find in Pattaya, even before factoring in the chaos that so often caught them by their ankles.

Nothing was safe. Not in the ashes of Jigen's cigarette, the length of Lupin's libido, the slash and burn of swords and guns.

But, for a dark moment, they could pretend it was. 

**Author's Note:**

> This was mostly just a writing practice while I argue with myself about other projects and bad writing habits that I am developing. But, hopefully, something halfway comforting came out of it.
> 
> I think where I struggle is that I want to go too heavy and long with a plot, where most readers maybe one something a little soft and light. I mean, hell. I read mostly when I'm trying to go to bed, so most of the fanfics that I bookmark to re-read are emotional one-shots. It's just hard to give into this sort of work when I feel like I should be challenging myself more. Or at least, picking on Goemon less.


End file.
